We're Not Standing, We Are Falling
by Lunatic Silver
Summary: 'You would have made a good knight,' she wants to tell him. But this time she thinks before she speaks.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Game of Thrones_ nor its characters. They belong to HBO, GRRM, and whoever else has the rights.

**Note:** Set between 2x08 and 2x09. Feedback appreciated!

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**we're not standing, we are falling**

Sansa does not know what it is that draws her out to the roof to stare off into the horizon that Stannis will soon emerge from. She only knows she could not stay locked away in her room any longer; the walls were closing in.

So she comes to the open air, to the slight breeze that doesn't offer much relief, to a spot high up and far away.

He isn't supposed to be there, silent and somber and angry eyes on her until she realizes she is not alone.

"Pardons, Ser," she makes herself whisper - though truly she wants to cry and be angry at him for being here, for ruining her moment alone even though he was here first. "I did not know you were here. I will leave you be."

The Hound snorts and gestures around them. "Yes, because there isn't enough room up here for two," he growls. He sounds angry, and his words are a hint slurred. "Go on then. Fly back to your cage, Little Bird."

Sansa swallows the lump in her throat - she will not cry, not again, she has cried too often - puts on a blank face, and sits down not far from him. "I only thought you wanted to be alone. And I am not a bird."

"And I'm no ser," he rumbles. He is watching her though, head turned her way.

"If I stop calling you ser, will you stop calling me a bird?" she questions and meets his eyes. She feels heat unfurl in the pit of her belly when it hits her how he's staring at her - _'Stay away from me'_ - but she doesn't lower her gaze.

His eyes roam over her in a way that makes her feel vulnerable and exposed; her cheeks burn and all she can think of is his presence in her room, staring at the sign of her womanhood. "You sing, you chirp your courtesies like you were trained. You live in a pretty cage, and you look pretty for your masters."

Sansa looks away from him and stares off into the distance. She feels woozy - from the height, from the dying heat, from the weariness of her flowering - but more than that she feels angry and hurt.

"And you? Are you nothing but a good and loyal dog, begging at your master's feet and guarding him from harm?" The words come out unbidden. Why does she speak without thinking so often? It is worse with Shae, with The Hound. Shame twists in her gut, and she feels wretched; what would her septa say?

But Septa Mordane is nothing now, not even a decayed head on a spike any more.

"I beg your pardon, my lord," she whispers carefully, remembering not to say 'ser' this time. Her head is bowed when she feels his fingers - warm and rough - grabbing her chin and making her look at him.

"Better a dog than a knight. You should have learned that by now. Trant and Blount and the others, they're knights. Sworn knights in their pretty armor, and they all hit you, each one, without a second thought." His fingers let go of her chin, but his eyes stay on her, cruel and angry. "Would it please you more if I was a knight? Well bugger that. A knight won't protect you from Joffrey, girl." He laughs then, bitterly, and finally looks away. "My brother is a knight. Rhaegar Targaryen knighted him. Do you know how Gregor repaid the prince?"

Sansa shudders violently and feels as though her tummy is rebelling and trying to come up her throat. She does not want to talk about his brother and all the bad things Ser Gregor Clegane has done.

"Please."

The Hound pauses and looks at her again. His eyes are not so angry, not so cruel now.

"I know what your brother did," she whispers - but it isn't Ser Gregor's crimes during the Rebellion that she's speaking of. "He was no true knight."

The Hound's deep, rumbling laughter startles her. It is bitter but loud, and then he stares at her with an expression she cannot read. "No, little bird. He was no true knight."

Sansa thinks that he is still mocking her - though his voice is not so bitter now. She watches him and thinks about the little wooden knight Lord Baelish spoke of months ago. She thinks of those men on top of her and holding her and the sight of their bodies lifeless on the ground as Sandor Clegane carried her away.

_'You would have made a good knight,' _she wants to tell him. But this time she thinks before she speaks.


End file.
